


Yours

by jammeke



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jammeke/pseuds/jammeke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Percival is tasked with guarding his King's most valuable prisoner, the Crown Prince of Camelot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt this work is based on:
> 
>   _Percival's one of Cendred's Knights. When Camelot is conquered by Cendred's man, Percival's tasked with guarding Cendred's most precious and dangerous prisoner, the Crown prince of Camelot._
> 
> I strayed a bit from the original prompt but figured that was all right seeing as I'm the OP as well as the author. What can I say? The world needs more A/P.

The prisoner had stopped fighting.

Oh, he still fought whenever the guards entered his muggy cell; still thrashed in their arms when they forced him to his knees and stuffed his mouth with stale bread; still refused to open his mouth when they questioned him—using more violence than they usually did, eager to avenge their fallen friends. 

He was resisting them. But he no longer fought them. 

There was no hope in his movements when he struggled to break free, no determination in his eyes when he eyed the keys dangling from his tormentor's belt. He was a horse putting itself through its paces. He was a leaf destined to fall. He was what he was: a Prince, a man who could not give in. 

Percival was supposed to be aware of this. Was supposed to watch the man at all times. Was he not? 

He rarely entered the cell himself, stood guard outside it and watched, his vision obscured by bars and narrowed eyes. The prisoner looked at him sometimes. Percival always looked back. It was what they did: they watched one another. What else was there to do? 

Time was an abstract concept in the dark dungeon hallways. It passed, slowly, its sole purpose moving on. He knew he did not have to stay down here, knew he could ask for replacement easily enough. Despite knowing this, he did not ask to be relieved. He did not trust others to take his position, did not trust them to watch the prisoner as he did, suspected they would touch, take, destroy. More so than the interrogators already did. It was Percival's duty to look at the man. 

It was his wish to look out for him.

" . . . your name?"

He blinked, said his name reflexively.

A low grunt was the response he got. Then, after a moment's silence, the prisoner spoke again. " . . . water?" 

Percival shook his head. He wondered if the prisoner could see him. "I do not have any," he said, just to be sure. Frowning, he stepped closer to the bars. "The others will be here soon."

The prisoner sniffed. "I know." His voice was rough, gruff with disuse. 

Percival did not like the sound of it. Neither did he like having to use the word ‘prisoner’ inside his head. “Your name is Arthur.”

Something moved in the far corner of the cell. Candlelight glinted off golden hair. The locks were greasy, plastered to the pri— Arthur’s head where it didn’t stick out in tufts. The man got to his feet, wobbled closer to the bars. “I know.”

A soft laugh escaped Percival’s mouth. He closed it abruptly, eyes trailing over Arthur’s face, his sunken cheeks. Those cheeks did not use to be round per se, but they had definitely been rounder when Arthur was first brought in. Healthier.

“Are they—” Arthur cleared his throat. The action sounded painful. “Are they looking for me?”

Percival rather thought they were. Was it not a knight’s duty to look after his Lord? “I believe so,” he said, trying to think of the others’ words, whether they had sounded excited, bloodthirsty, possibly troubled. 

Arthur chuckled. He did not sound amused. “Right.” He turned around, his back facing Percival once more.

Percival studied him, gaze landing on his slumped shoulders. Arthur was losing hope.

This should have brought him great happiness. This should have urged him to alert the others, tell them the prisoner is close to breaking point. This should have made him think all kinds of things.

But he could only dwell on one thing—one memory, really. 

The day he had first seen Arthur.

* * * 

“Can’t believe we got this lucky.”

“Still can’t believe it.” Chuckles. Hands clasping shoulders. Joyous laughter. Songs.

Unmoved by his comrades’ excitement, Percival peered at the unconscious figure in their arms, raised one eyebrow in silent question. Who had they captured? Which enemy's defeat had caused them to burst into song? 

Arthur Pendragon, they said. Uther’s son, they said. Camelot’s heir, they said.

And then they sang once more.

That evening, they told Cenred of the prisoner’s capture. Percival sat amongst them and listened closely, head tilted to the side, his mead carefully untouched. 

The Prince had fought alongside his fellow Knights, had fought remarkably well indeed. Against all expectations, he had surrendered the moment they got their hands on his servant. The Prince had urged them to spare his men and gangly lad, told them to take him, Uther's son, and let the others live. He and his men had been sorely outnumbered, but they had fought well—were in fact still offering resistance—and Percival’s comrades had been more than happy to accept his offer.

The rest of the tale, Percival knew, or could have guessed at least. They’d returned with Uther’s son as fast as they could, eager to show Cenred their precious prisoner. 

* * * 

The soldiers' faces had been bright and expectant, their cheeks red with wine. Percival remembered Cenred thanking them, punching their shoulders, ruffling their hair. With sparkling eyes, he had spoken of Morgause—the woman who visited the castle sometimes, and was to be treated with reverence by all.

That evening, the King had visited the Prince. Having been off duty at the time, Percy did not know what Cenred had said and done, nor did he guess at his actions. He did not like to dwell on the possibilities, preferred to remember his surge of respect for Camelot’s Crown Prince that night, his admiration for the man who had willingly given his life for that of his men—his realisation that Cenred would never, ever, make the same offer to the enemy should he ever find himself in a similar position. Percival would never come first for his King—nor should he. 

Should he?

He had pondered this question many times, often stared at the prisoner’s head and wondered—if just for a moment—what it must feel like to be trusted by this man, to be loved so well he would give his life for you. 

Those thoughts made him smile, secretly, in the dark, where no one could see.

No one except Arthur. Arthur, who looked. Arthur, who never said a word.

Until this night. 

“ . . . out of here.”

Arthur truly did need water. He could scarcely speak. 

Percival thought of going upstairs and asking for it—pictured being laughed at, called a weakling, a traitor. Even worse was the thought of the others coming down here and offering the Prince water, but asking for all kinds of things in return. Answers. Favours. Things Arthur did not want to give them.

“I know you want out of here,” Percival said, softly, reassuringly, a strange sense of longing spreading in his chest. 

“N’t what I s’d.” 

No? “What did you say?” Percival leaned against the bars with one shoulder, tried to make out Arthur’s face in the dark. 

“You’ll be . . . happy to get out of here.” The Prince’s words were almost devoid of emotion. Almost.

“When that happens,” Percival allowed, thinking of other men taking his place, shuddering at the image alone. 

Arthur’s face became visible suddenly, unexpectedly. He’d stepped forward, into the light of Percival’s torch. “When that happens,” he repeated quietly. “When I die.”

“No.”

Arthur’s eyebrow rose.

Percival stared at him, closed his mouth. 

“You do not—” Arthur coughed into his hand. Percival was disconcerted to see something red staining his fingers. “Do not think I will?” He wiped his hand off on what remained of his tunic. “Cause I will.”

“No,” Percival repeated, purposely this time. “I will not—” let that happen? Stand by and watch you die? Be able to live with not doing a thing about it? There were so many ways to finish that sentence, but he did not know how.

His hand dropped to his belt. His eyes found the ring he was reaching for.

It was there, dangling within reach. 

Arthur’s key to freedom.

“Why did you do it?” he asked, eyes still fixed on his key ring, pondering the possibilities, the idea that all he had to do was reach out and—and then what?

Arthur did not answer at first. Eventually, he asked what Percival meant.

“Give yourself up?” Percival tore his gaze away from his belt, focused his attention on Arthur’s face. “You are their Prince, more valuable than they could ever be.” 

Arthur frowned at him. “ . . . awful lot like my father,” he mumbled, resting his back against the wall.

Choosing not to dwell on the fact he had just been compared to Uther Pendragon, Percival carefully chose his next words. “You sacrificed yourself for your men. Why?”

Arthur shrugged, face scrunching up for a moment as he carefully righted himself again. “They are good men.” His gaze became distant. "Would do the same for me.”

“They are supposed to.” Percival was not sure what he was trying to accomplish. Convince Arthur? Himself? Both? Cenred’s words—his King’s words—had to mean more to him than an enemy’s soldier’s, surely?

Arthur shook his head. “I can not ask them to do things I would not do myself.” His words were strangely clear all of a sudden, filled with conviction. “They have pledged themselves to me. I can only offer my actions and promises in return.” 

Percival’s fingers twitched. “Foolishness.”

Arthur met his gaze head-on. “Fairness,” he corrected him quietly.

The key was small, too small for so big a moment. It was cold in Percival’s hands, fit snugly into the lock. The door opened with the squeaking sound Percival had grown accustomed to—had grown to dread. The sound of helpless despair was a sound of promise now. Music to his ears.

Arthur’s eyes widened, his hands shook. “Are you sure?” 

And that question was all the answer Percival needed. He unfastened the Prince’s ankle chain and led him out of the cell.

* * * 

Arthur’s hair shone, though not with greasiness this time. The sunlight glinted off it, nearly blinding Percival, and making him smile stupidly to himself. 

The practice field was nearly empty now, Arthur’s knights leaving in small groups, talking and laughing amongst themselves. The training had been intense, but it had gone well, and Percival could see from the quirk of Arthur’s lips that the Prince—his Prince—was happy with the progress they were making. Cenred’s army was still out there, Morgause was still out there. All they could do was train, fight, become better at what they already thrived at, and face them with courage in their hearts.

For the love of Camelot, they shouted.

For the love of Arthur, was what Percival heard.

“Gwaine needs to work on his footwork,” he said, handing Arthur his flask.

Arthur tipped his head back and drank eagerly, droplets of sweat trickling down his throat. Percival followed them with his eyes and licked his lips, tasting salt there. He had to close his eyes for a moment.

“I know,” Arthur said, still slightly out of breath, and Percival peered at him through his lashes. “I let him know.”

Percival grunted. “He must have been drunk when you did.”

Arthur laughed. “As opposed to any other moment?” He shook his head, lips quirking upwards “He is a good man.”

They all were, Percival thought, according to Arthur at least. 

Arthur handed him back his flacon. “Anything you wanted to ask me?” he said, features still soft with thoughts of his men and training gone well. 

Percival stared at him, drank him in. “No. No, I . . .” What could he say? He was not a man of words. “I am just . . . grateful.” He glanced at the ground. “Happy.”

He could not see Arthur’s face, but he could hear his voice. “I am glad.”

So was Percival. He glanced up, slowly, through his lashes. Arthur was looking at him, brows furrowed just a little. His red tunic was dark with sweat, his cheeks red from the exercise—and rather too much sunlight—and perhaps—

“Arthur,” he said. “Arthur.”

Arthur said nothing. His eyes did.

When Percival stepped closer, touched his hair, his cheeks, his jaw, Arthur stared back at him unflinchingly, curious, heart-warmingly willing to let Percival do this, to let him touch him and—oh, Percival wanted to, so very, very much. 

Arthur did not trash when Percival spread him out on the yellowing grass; did not resist when he pinned his wrists to the ground beside his head; didn’t fight when he leaned in and kissed him, sweetly, slowly, exploring kingdoms unknown. 

This time, it was all right. This time, his lack of determination to break free did not worry Percival. This time, he was more than willing to keep Arthur right here, trapped in the safety of his arms. This time, he did not plan on letting him go. 

Unless, of course, Arthur asked him to. 

EPILOGUE 

He never did.


End file.
